Bluebird
by Pyrex Shards
Summary: Sequel to Ananda. The day after discovering Helga's poems and journals; Arnold is haunted by what he found. Should he tell Phoebe? Chapter 1 revised for easier reading and I corrected a date problem.
1. Pandora

Bluebird

a _Hey Arnold fanfic_ by Pyrex Shards  
pre-read by Lord Malachite

A/N: This is a sequel to Ananda. It might help to read that fic first if you haven't already. It is only a oneshot whereas this will be much longer.

_Flashbacks, journal entries, and poetry are all in italics._

Chapter 1: Pandora

_Two years after the accident..._

_January 10__th__, 2002_

I have my hands in my coat pockets against the cold of winter. No snow, no clouds in the sky, but it's cold and there's enough breeze to blot out any chance that the January sun could heat anything. I look up at the house while contemplating to myself just how to proceed. No doubt about it, this is going to be awkward.

You see, I ran out of books. I read through my meager collection about a year before, even after reading a few books twice. When that was done Phoebe let me read through hers. Her collection was much larger than mine, and it got me through another year. Of course I visited the book store every so often to freshen up my supply. I feel like I've read an entire library worth of books to Helga now, in just two long years. I finally realized that when I stood at a shelf in a bookstore unable to focus on anything, completely lost.

I sounded pretty sheepish when I spoke with Olga on the phone, asking about Helga's book collection and if I could look through it for more books to read. Olga gushed over the phone about how wonderful it was that I was still reading to Helga, and that I could come over after school and she would let me in. So immediately after school I took the bus a little longer than usual to a home that I only briefly remember. I'm standing here, looking up at the Pataki brownstone.

I breathe in and out slowly, I can see my breath, and instinctively I bundle myself tighter into my coat. I have no idea who's inside other than Olga. I suspect Big Bob is still at work but Miriam may be home. Helga's home life, the parts Helga had cared to share with me years ago, add to my list of thoughts about what I am to experience inside. I take those first steps up the stoop and to the door. No time like the present. I raise my right hand and with a black gloved fist, gently knock against the wood panel of the door.

I'm greeted with a high pitch voice, unmistakably Olga's, that yells "I'm coming!" A few seconds later I see her walking down the stairs through the glass. I hear a click of the deadbolt and the door opens. Olga peeks around the door, then down at me with a warm smile that seems to match the warm air spilling out of the house. "Arnold, I'm so glad you came." Olga opens the door wide and gestures me in with a wave of her hand. She's wearing a deep red turtleneck sweater and bluejeans. Everything about Olga seems warm.

As I walk past her, entering the Pataki household for the first time in years, I catch a whiff of a familiar fragrance. Flowers of some type. I always caught that same fragrance after arriving at the Hospital in Helga's room after Olga's visits. Though now it is stronger since I'm standing beside Olga as she shuts the door behind me, it's still very pleasant. It is something I have not experienced in a year, not since Olga left Hillwood for a job teaching underprivileged children in Uganda. But now that she's back, it's as if a key member of the unofficial Helga Pataki support group has returned.

"Let me take your coat." Olga offers and I oblige, letting her stand behind me and grab my coat as I take it off. Once it's off she hangs it on an empty coat hook beside a pink jacket, and I can't help but wonder if it's Helga's. "It's so awfully cold out there today," Olga starts as she finishes hanging the coat, making sure that it's firmly on the hook, "would you like some hot chocolate or coffee? That is if you drink coffee." She turns to look at me inquisitively and I can't help but smile back.

I wave my hands in front of me dismissively. "No I'm fine, thank you. I'm kind of in a hurry to get home, I have a big homework assignment due tomorrow."

She smiles back, obviously something a teacher loves to hear. "I'm glad you're taking your studies seriously. Why don't we go up to Helga's room and you can pick out some books, okay?"

I nod in reply. As Olga turns to lead me up the stairs to the second floor, I take a long look at the living room, and how odd it is. There's trophies and certificates, ribbons and all sorts of uniquely shaped awards. The walls are lit by track-lighting. There's a red couch and a worn-looking recliner in the center of the room. The recliner sits facing a large Purdyvision console TV at one corner of the room. An expensive looking remote is sitting on the armrest of the recliner, as if waiting for the commands of some modern king.

"So what is your homework assignment about?" Olga's question breaks me out of my trance and I look up at her. She's halfway up the stairs already and slowly ascending. I smile sheepishly and begin following her up the stairs, palming the handrail as I go.

"I have to write an essay about John Steinbeck."

Olga spins around, on a stair step, and looks down at me with a gleam in her eye. "Oh Helga just loves John Steinbeck. I've seen her reading Grapes of Wrath before!" She exclaims, bringing her hands up to her heart, trotting down the stairs and then putting her hands on my shoulders. "I've got a great idea. Why don't you read one of his books to Helga! I'm sure my baby sister has something of his in her collection."

"I- I'll see what she has." I manage, in shock of how Olga just managed all that on the stairs.

Olga smiles even wider and then turns to trot energetically up the stairs. "This is so exciting!" I follow her up the stairs at a normal pace as she disappears around the corner in a blur of blonde and red, while I try to shake the images of the room with the trophies and the pink jacket out of my head. I hear a the sound of a key latch as I turn the corner. Olga is in front of Helga's room, with an old looking set of keys in her hands, methodically picking through the keys. "I'm sorry, Mum and Dad locked the door and I don't know which key it is, they all look the same."

It's strange to me that her parents would lock Helga's door. Then again there are lots of things about the Patakis that are strange. They're like the opposite of that old show I used to watch in the first grade, the Brady Bunch. I look on while Olga tries a few more keys. I think all these doors have locks on them. Perhaps once upon a time this old brownstone was like Sunset Arms.

"Finally." Olga breathes as the lock clicks. She puts a hand on the knob and twists, then pushes the door open. I feel cool air, it smells stale and stagnant. Olga walks in and I follow. I've been in Helga's room once, when she thought she was dying of some monkey disease. I remember Helga laying in her bed, nervously confessing that she thought I was "okay," right after Phoebe rushed in and told her she wasn't dying. Now that I know what she really meant, four years later, I'm standing in her room again. This time I'm staring in awe at box after box of cell phones stacked in a corner.

They seem to be growing from the wall, invading Helga's room. Violating her sacred space. The fresh blue and white boxes seem out of place against the blue wallpaper. There's a thick layer of dust over everything but the cell phones. Heat pours into the room from the hallway but it's still cold in here. The phones must be covering a vent. I can hear the sound of air whistling in from around the dust laden window seal. A single vacant and dust-laden spider web in the window dances in the light from the outside.

The room is empty save for the cell phones and the furniture. The only pink that I see is the bed sheets and matching pillows, still on the bed though made up tightly, as if waiting for someone to return. Olga reaches the closet and opens it, "Mum and Dad put all of Helga's belongings away." I stare at Olga's back in shock. I've seen in the movies where a loved one is gone and their family keeps their room preserved. All of Helga's stuff is in boxes that I can see from behind the squeaky closet door as Olga opens it.

She turns around and looks at me while she kneels down, I can't tell if she's grinning because she's embarrassed or if she's still thinking about Steinbeck. I'm realize I'm standing in the middle of the room with my mouth slightly open. I pull my mouth closed and walk up to Olga and the closet full of boxes. "Let's see, clothes, magazines," she fingers the black sharpie labels on the boxes and works her way up from the bottom. "Oh, here we are." She stabs a large box at the top of the stack with her index finger. "Books. There's some other boxes of books but I'm sure this is the one that has Grapes of Wrath in it." She reaches for the box and starts pulling it towards her. I realize from the way the boxes are bowing underneath it must be a heavy box. "Can you help me?" Olga chuckles.

I walk into action and stand beside Olga, helping her remove the box and grabbing underneath as she pulls it out. Once the box is free I grunt as I bear the full brunt of its weight while Olga reaches underneath quickly to help me. We walk the box to the center of the room and let it down, the displaced air underneath kicking up dust bunnies that crawled out of the closet with it.

Olga gently lifts the lid off the box and I'm greeted with the unmistakable smell of sour apple. I recognize it instantly as Helga. It perfumed her presence, and was part of the sensation that I remember the most when she kissed me on the roof of FTi, the taste of that salty sour apple bubblegum on her lips and cinnamon-like spiciness on her tongue as she brushed it across my teeth.

"Ohhhh.." Olga swoons, reaches down to grab a hardcover book off of the top of the stack, and hugs it to herself in glee. "Here it is." She turns the old looking book around in her hands and reaches it out to where it is between us. The title _Grapes of Wrath_ is written in fancy handwriting, with accents that look like grapes. Behind that a scene of a dusty field and a haggard looking farming family standing in front of it. The entire book is worn. Its own musty smell meets my nose along with the bubblegum.

I take the book from her hands and look at it closely. It's a heavy book. Lots of pages. I smile as I realize, while most of us were reading comic books before the sixth grade, Helga was reading classic literature. My mental image of Helga seems to get clearer every time I come across something as profound as this. Olga puts a gentle hand on my shoulder as I look at her. "You must promise me that you'll take good care of these books. My sister treasures them and wouldn't want anything to happen to them. Especially these old hardcovers." The shrill beeping sound of a timer going off echoes through the house and Olga lets go of my shoulder. "Oh, my soufflé is ready. Why don't you stay up here and go through this box. I have to go downstairs and finish dinner okay. Don't worry about putting the box back, I'll have daddy help."

I nod at her and she stands up to walk out of Helga's room. Once at the door she turns around as if to say something and I glance over my shoulder at her. But she simply shrugs slightly and walks out the door. I let myself smile. Sometimes I don't understand what Helga's big deal is with Olga. Perhaps I'll never understand. It's not my place to ask, if I could ask at all. I look down at the book in my hands and shrug slightly as I sit the book down to my left and peer into the box.

The box itself is full of books, all stacked neatly as if to fill the entire box as if it were a game of Tetris. I pull a few loose paperbacks out that are being used for spacing between the larger books. Already one of the larger books catches my eye. An entire collection of old plays by playwrights I've never heard of, but one very familiar playwright, Shakespeare. That might be fun to read. I sit it down on top of the Steinbeck.

I pull out a few of the smaller hardcovers. Perhaps these could be read later but I find them unremarkable somehow, I sit those to my right. Another hardcover catches my eye. It's thick. The title says Run with the Hunted, by someone named Charles Bukowski. I pick it up and idly flip through it. Poems and short stories. There's a yellow piece of paper sticking out the top of the book, a makeshift bookmark. I smile and sit it down on top of the collection of plays. Three large books should be enough to last a few months in my estimation.

Underneath the Bukowski book I see yet another book. But unlike the others it doesn't have a dust cover, and there's no writing on it. The book is purple in color. Odd. I lift the book carefully, noting that there are others like it underneath, and look it over, then at the spine:

_Volume V_

I stare at the simple label, puzzled. It's written in some very fancy calligraphy. I turn the book right side up and open it to the first page, reading the purple handwriting, mouthing the words to myself as I go...

_Dearest Arnold,_

_How I long for the day, when I can pronounce my undying love for you, my precious football headed muse. _

I stare at the entry. This is Helga's handwriting. My breathing slows and I look around instinctively; I want to make sure no one's around to see what I've just discovered. I stand up with the book still in my hands, and the thick smell of sour-apple bubblegum follows along with it. I stare in concentration at that first stanza and I maneuver around the box, and to the bed. I back into the bed and let myself drop to sit on the side, I can see dust around me, kicked up from the bed itself. I cradle the book in my hands, and I continue reading.

_But alas, I couldn't do it today, just like every other day in your gracious presence. I shoved you out of the way on the bus, squirted water into your beautiful face at the water fountain, and blew ninety seven spitwads into your cornflower hair. I've lost count of the number of sins I've committed against you. Oh if I could only apologize to you, my love. But I cannot. I'm fickle. I long for you to save me from myself yet I push you out of the way. _

_Perhaps I can make it up to you tomorrow. I'll throw one less spitwad, spray less water, or push instead of shove. Perhaps then, you'll notice me._

_I'm yours forever my love._

_Helga G. Pataki_

Somehow I cannot take my eyes off of the page. I read the sentences in random order, whatever catches my eye...

_Perhaps I can make it up to you tomorrow._

_I'm fickle._

_I've lost count..._

_Sins against you..._

_Undying love..._

_I'm yours forever..._

_Cornflower..._

_Just like every other day..._

_Dearest Arnold..._

I look around the room and listen to the silence and the echo of Helga's words in my head. I notice a pink polka-dot clock on the wall. It seems out of place, straight out of the eighties, the second hand isn't moving and its stuck somewhere between four-oh-six and four-oh-seven. I wonder idly when the battery died. I imagine Helga in this room, writing in the book I now hold in my hand, and thinking of me.

I let out a breath and look down at the book in my arms again. This is only the first page. I wonder what the other pages hold, so I gently lift the page with my finger and turn it. This time of course there are two entries, one for each page. The next page starts out like the last, but towards the bottom it has a piece of yellowing tape stuck to it, and a single strand of blond hair.

_Dearest Arnold,_

_I'm happy today my prince. When I got home, I noticed out of the corner of my eye the faintest hint of a flaxen glimmer on my shoulder. One of your hairs, one of those precious cornflower strands that I can only dream of counting, followed me home. It must have caught my shirt when I pushed you in the hallway. I could dance with this fiber in my hands all day, twirling until I'm dizzy with images of those green eyes in my mind as I hum a love song to you. _

_But I must not lose this memento. I'm taping it to this unworthy page as a reminder of a day when a piece of you followed me home, danced with me, and let me dream for an evening._

_Thank you for this precious gift,_

_Helga G. Pataki_

I blush at the image of Helga dancing around this room with a strand of my hair intertwined between her fingers, humming some love song by Dino Spumoni. Even if the dancing image before me is just a shadow, I smile at her. I look down at the piece of hair, and chuckle. I lose so many of those things in my hairbrush at home. All those times when she pushed me in the hallway at school. Any of those times could have been this day. I look for a date on the book, anything, there has to be a year somewhere. I start leafing through the entries.

_Dearest Arnold,_

_I love that annoyed glare you gave..._

No date on the top of the page. I thumb several pages again.

_To the boy in all my girlhood fantasies,_

_I dreamed about you last night._

Again, no date. I thumb an even larger group of pages. The air rushing from the pages as they turn brings fresh sour apple to my nose.

_It's hypnotic my muse,_

_when you laugh and turn,_

_and your hair dances around on your head,_

I'm beginning to understand that every single page in this thing is devoted to me as I read through yet another devotional. I sigh and run a hand through my hair. Helga didn't date any of these. How did she expect to catalog these things. Is this a journal? Am I missing the point. She's such an enigma! I shake my head slightly, forcing myself to concentrate, and grab a good amount of pages, then flip through to another page towards the back of the book.

_Dearest, and very waterlogged, Arnold,_

_You tango like a god and you hair smells divine, _

_You're my hapless April fool._

April fool? Tango? I look at that lingering imaginary shadow of Helga in the center of her room wearing the glasses of a blind man, and I smile.

Fourth grade!

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooO

_"Oh I cannot believe this!" I let out an exasperated breath and ran my hands through my matted-wet hair. I sat hunched over on the top stair step of the YMAA building, on one edge. The rain fell at an angle, blocked by the building so I could sit and not get wet. Not that it mattered much after the little swim I had in the pool. But I didn't treasure the thought of having to dry out again either. It was a little after ten o'clock, I think. _

_"Believe what Arnoldo? That I managed to pull off yet another perfect April Fool's day prank?! Admit it. I won football head!" I glared across the stair steps to the opposite edge, where Helga sat. She didn't look any better than me. Her clothing was a crumpled and damp mess after being hastily rung out in the women's restroom. Her pigtails sat limp and her matching bow had no perk. Her wicked grin seemed to broadcast across the empty space. I swore to myself that I wanted to wipe it off her face. _

_To put it lightly, I was enraged. "This is all your fault!" I snapped back at her._

_"What? That we missed the bus or that you thought you had blinded me?" Helga chortled from her perch. She had her sunglasses clipped down her shirt and her cane propped up behind her on the wall. She unclipped the glasses and put them on, then went for her cane. "Oh Helga. I'm so sorry." She mocked while pretending to poke around with the cane. "I play moronic April fools pranks and I let you make me think I blinded you with a stupid flash bulb. Oh the humanity. Oh the drama."_

_I thrust my hands out towards the street. "We missed the bus we needed to catch because you insisted on playing one last prank!" _

_Helga grinned at me devilishly, and eyed me for a second from over her sunglasses as they fell uneven across her nose, then she fingered them back up in front of her eyes and continued. "Here, let me be your personal assistant for a day so you can torture me. Let me buy you a hideously expensive milkshake. Ha ha haha." Helga pulled off her sunglasses and hugged herself in laughter. "You're so gullible Arnoldo. It's just a stupid holiday football head. Don't get your damp undies in a bunch." _

_"You locked me in the janitors closet, in the dark, for a half hour!" I stood up and paced the distance between us. "What kind of an April fools day prank is that? Huh?" I looked down at her in disgust._

_Helga returned my glare but didn't break her smirk, nor did she back away. "So!? People come and go here all the time, including the Janitors. I couldn't let April Fools go with a fizzle, you frazzled maroon."_

_I crossed my arms and tapped my foot on the ground. "Are you finished yet?"_

_"No. You're way too uptight about this hair boy. Is..." Helga gasped melodramatically and reached up to poke my neck "is that a vein I see in your neck."_

_I flinched and batted her hand away. The staring match continued over the din of the falling rain, until I noticed a glimmer of something in Helga's eye. She turned forward to face the street and the rain. "Look." Helga said amongst a few remaining chuckles in her throat. "If it makes you feel any better, I'll apologize for one thing I did today. But you're only getting one apology from me Bucko. Don't think I'm making a habit of it either."_

_"Anything?" I asked incredulously._

_"Doi!" _

_"Okay." I thought for a moment then grinned. This was a golden opportunity to teach Helga a lesson. That I could outsmart her if I wanted to. "I want you to apologize for being a bully." I looked down at the ground and idly kicked at a piece of loose cement. I could feel Helga's eyes burning a hole in my head._

_"Bzzzt. Wrong answer. Times up! And what does our contestant get? Zilch. Nadda."_

_"But you said anything Helga." I laughed triumphantly. _

_Helga scowled at me, "I lied. So sue me. April fools is still on for about two hours."_

_"Gah!" I yelled, put a palm to my forehead, and paced back to the other edge of the stairs after kicking the chunk of cement into the rain. It clacked on a few of the steps over the sound of the rain before hitting the street and disappearing under a torrent of water. Once safely away from Helga, for her sake, I leaned against the brick wall. I stared out into the myriad of thick raindrops as they fell onto the street. Silence descended upon us again._

_That is until Helga finally cried out in frustration, it snapped me out of my trance. "What?"_

_Helga stood up and looked back at me from across the stairs. "It's almost ten-thirty and the bus isn't even here!" She yelled out in frustration. "How am I supposed to get home at a decent hour without getting grounded by Big Bob and Miriam the smoothie queen!"_

_"Oh now you realize that..." I said sarcastically. Helga shot me a dangerous glare from across the stairs and I looked down at the ground, finding the cracks in the cement interesting. "Why do you call them by their first names anyway?" I asked without thinking. _

_"None of your beeswax pal!" Helga yelled._

_I looked up at her and shook my head quickly. "Okay. Sorry I asked." _

_"Good." Helga folded her arms while crossing the distance between us until she stood mere feet in front of me. She leaned forward. "Stay sorry and quiet at the same time. I don't want your dork rays invading my brain!"_

_I weighed my options. Boredom or dangerous conversation with a short-fused firecracker. I decided upon the latter. "I'm just surprised you don't call them mom and dad. That's all." _

_Helga snorted out a laugh and turned away form me. "I called them that once upon a time. Fat lot it did for me." Helga seemed to lose her composure, she looked back at me with a scowl. "Don't you ever tell anyone that, okay? I shouldn't have even said anything. But you're being all nosy and psychoanalytic."_

_"Psychowhat?" I arched an eyebrow._

_"It's what a shrink does to your mind. And I didn't give you permission to start talking, Arnoldo."_

_"Hmmph." I looked away from Helga and to the rain again. "I don't recall needing permission from you. I'm just trying to make conversation. The next bus doesn't arrive until eleven."_

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooO

A car horn from the street below breaks through my memories. I've slid slowly off the bed and I'm sitting on the dust laden floor with my back against the bed-frame. It was a fond memory, even though we argued. Helga finishes my memory in her journal, devotional, whatever it is:

_Your cute when your flustered and angry, for I can get under your skin and stay there forever, comforted for the briefest of moments. I didn't want to leave you tonight, so I pressed on and you couldn't avoid me. I'm sorry my angel. I'll make it up to you._

_April fools, Arnoldo._

I take my hand and lay it palm down on top of the page. I can almost feel the grooves in the paper from the pen that Helga used. "If only you'd of told me," I whisper at the book and close my eyes. If only Helga would have told me, I wouldn't feel as confused as I do right now.

I lift my hand and turn to another page of the journal, diary, whatever it was to Helga. The sour-apple scent lingers, like its sticking with me. How many of these books does she have? I close the book and lean forward towards the box. After depositing the book on top of the stack I already have, I reach in to the box and pull out another unmarked volume. This one is light blue, on the spine it says volume eight, more recent than the one I just sat down.

I open the book, and sure enough, no date, just an entry. A poem...

_A boyish blue baseball cap..._

I shut the book slowly. I can read no further. I'll be here forever, I realize. But I want to read these. I can hear Helga in those pages, talking to me. Is this how I can solve the puzzle? Is this how I finally see the picture? What I am doing here is wrong, I know. I have no right to read these. But it is too late for that. _I'm sorry Helga, but I have to take these._ I sit volume eight down and reach into the box. I grab for two more plain books and the spines, luckily enough, say volumes six and seven.

Surprisingly these books are not as heavy as they seem, and they lift up easily enough as I stand. As I approach the door, maneuvering cautiously around the box, I take one last glance at the scene around me. I can feel her presence, as if Helga is in here, and I know it's just the memories that are hidden from me, her own memories of this room. But I feel them too.

I make a silent vow to return as I take the stairs a step at a time. The vow isn't necessary because Olga wouldn't mind at all if it means I can continue reading to her sister. The smell of sweet potatoes and cinnamon greet my nose when I set foot on the ground below the stairs and walk the short distance towards the kitchen. Inside, Olga is washing utensils in the sink, on the kitchen table is a baking dish resting on a towel, inside the dish, that divine smelling soufflé.

"I got the books." I say simply, and Olga turns to smile at me. Over her red sweater she's wearing a plain white apron.

"Wonderful!" She clasps her hands. "Do you have enough?"

I nod at her in return, smiling. "Several months worth. Helga has quite a collection. " The spines of the books are pressed against my stomach so she can't see what I have. It's sneaky, I know, but I want Helga to talk to me some more, and this is the only way I can see her doing that.

"Here, let me get you a tote bag." Olga offers as she turns off the water and reaches for a cupboard to withdraw a plain looking blue tote bag. She approaches me with the bag. "You can use this bag as long as you like. Just return those books when you're done and we can get more books from Helga's room."

"These will last me until at least spring."

Olga approaches me and holds out the tote for me to deposit the books. "How often do you visit her?"

"As much as possible. Every other day right now, and Sundays. I've had to cut back a little."

"That's a lot of time to devote to Helga." Olga's expression turns curious as she hands me the tote and we walk into the hallway. She's right, it is a lot of time. Helga never stopped bullying me up until the accident. Of all the people she bullied, she had it out for me the most. But I know her secret and I can't tell Olga the real reason I visit Helga.

"I know, it is. But it's something I have to do."

"Why do you feel that way?"

_Because I'm falling for her._ "Because. I... Guess I feel like I owe it to Helga, you know. She didn't deserve what happened to her, and doesn't deserve to be forgotten."

I sense Olga stopping behind me and I turn around to see her leaning against the wall, one hand hanging on to her other arm. "Are you okay?" I ask, stepping a few paces forward. Her eyes seem moist as she stares at me. My heart reaches out to her, for seeing Olga Pataki like this, that isn't something one should have to witness; a very heart wrenching sight. "Was it something I said?"

"No. I'm fine Arnold. It's just that I thought I was the only one who felt that way. The thought of my baby sister all alone in that hospital room... I would live there if they'd let me. It's so wonderful to see one of her true friends devoted to her like that." There's something to her voice, and I feel some guilt somewhere in my heart about certain books in the tote bag I am holding. I have to will that thought even deeper.

"What about your mom and dad? They visit her too, she's not alone _all_ the time."

My attempt to deflect the subject away from me seems lost on Olga as she walks forward and reaches for my coat, then holds it out for me to slip into. "You better get going if you want to turn in that report on Steinbeck tomorrow." She smiles at me. "You'll do great, but you need to spend some time on it."

"Thank you." I finish slipping the coat on and she steps back, I turn to face her. "I'll take care of these books for Helga."

She's holding her hands and looking at the space between us. I open my mouth to question her silence when she abruptly steps forward and encircles her arms around my shoulders in a tight embrace. We're not the same height so it's an awkward hug as she leans down slightly and rests her head against mine. I simply stand staring into space while holding the tote bag between us.

Olga's hug is a soft feeling, not at all unpleasant, and I can smell flowers in her red sweater. I realize that this is_ the_ Olga Pataki, hugging me in the entry way of her family's house. Any other boy would kill to be in this situation, but all that I can think about is the slight tremble in her arms, as if she's about to cry. "I just can't thank you enough" she squeaks "This means so much to me."

"You're welcome." I say softly, trying awkwardly to soothe her with my voice. I let go of the tote with one of my hands and reach around to pat her on the back.

"Don't be a stranger okay. Helga's friends are my friends too. If you need anything at all just let me know."

"You don't have to do anything. These books are quite enough."

She loosens her embrace and pulls away from me to stand, though she has her hands resting on my shoulders. She shakes her head, but she's still smiling a sad little smile, and I see tears in her eyes. "No, I insist. It's the least I can do."

"It's a deal." I smile at her, throwing as much warmth as I can into it, despite my mind orbiting around the words in Helga's journals.

Olga lets go of my shoulders and walks for the door to unlock the deadbolt. She turns the latch and opens the door. The small entryway is flooded with the cold air from outside, and I feel a little shiver down my back from the cold air hitting my face. As I walk out the door and down the stoop, Olga follows to stand in the doorway. "Arnold?"

I turn around to look back at her. "Yes?"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Olga stands there for a few more seconds, then backs away from the door, closing it along the way. I watch as she locks the deadbolt then waves at me from beyond the glass. We both turn away and I walk home, carrying a heavy weight in the tote bag and wondering what kind of Pandora's Box I am about to open.

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Author's Notes

Thus begins Bluebird. Arnold now has several volumes of Helga's poetry and journal entries. He's beginning his adventure in unlocking the enigma of Helga Pataki and there's lots of trials and tribulations ahead. Will he figure out just what Helga means to him? Can he keep his optimism against insurmountable odds? Just how deep into Helga's psyche can he go?

For those of you who may bring it up, yes, I know about the little pink book Arnold has in his possession. It's just that Arnold hasn't connected the dots just yet, and he's dense enough for that to be plausible. He will in time, believe me. The pink book will make an appearance at the most appropriate time. Now if I can just figure out what time that will be. :)

There's actually a lot of material drafted already, which made chapter one hard to draft believe it or not. I'd sit down with the intent to complete chapter one, then I'd end up writing a draft scene for another chapter. Doh! I've been working on this story since around October of last year whenever several people (you know who you are), made a request that I continue the Ananda metaverse. Since then this storyline has slowly evolved. To give you an idea of just how much it evolved, the first chapter in its present form is a complete 180 degree departure from my original design.

But I think this version works out for the better.

Shout-outs where they're due, to Lord Malachite, Jae B, and The JAM for beta-reading chapter one and offering words of encouragement and/or asking just the right questions to get me motivated towards starting this story out right!

Next up: The day after discovering Helga's writings, and Arnold is understandably haunted. Phoebe makes an entrance into the story, and the state of affairs with Phoebe's life will be revealed. Stay tuned!

Like always, I appreciate all of your reviews, and I will personally reply to them (provided they're signed, of course). So by all means, click the review button below this sentence. :)


	2. Heyerdahl

Bluebird

a _Hey Arnold fanfic_ by Pyrex Shards  
pre-read by Lord Malachite

A/N: The events here take place in 2002, which means chapter one takes place on January 10th, 2002. I've corrected that in chapter one (since it was only at the top of that chapter anyway), please forgive me! For clarity, the events in Ananda took place in 2000. I have a spreadsheet that breaks everything down into a neat little timeline. No, you cannot have a copy of it. ;)

_Flashbacks, journal entries, and poetry are all in italics._

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_Two years after the accident...  
The day after finding Helga's writings and poetry..._

_January 11__th__, 2002_

Lunch rolls around and I'm picking at my beige tray of hopelessly soggy spaghetti, one lone meatball as rationed by the lunch lady, along with over-steamed green beans, and a small piece of bread made with something the student body has identified as a garlic substitute, most likely salt. At least the cinnamon roll looks good, and so does the Yahoo soda that I splurge on every day. The only thing that I've touched so far is the Yahoo, and I realize as I look at my digital watch, that I'm already fifteen minutes into lunch.

The same poem has been run through my mind over and over as I look for clues within the words. I have it memorized already. It drowns out all the sound in the noisy cafeteria....

_Arnold my love-god!  
My dreams and my soul,  
the only one who makes my toes curl.  
Doctor Bliss says it's transference,  
this love I feel for you  
is just a little limerence  
But I can't write a limerick,  
nor can I concede a fool's folly,  
from my wrought iron heart.  
Do you still like my bow?_

After I got home and finished my report on the life of John Steinbeck, I immediately dove for the other books in the tote bag, and pulled out volume five of Helga's, whatever-it-was she chose to call it. Helga's book...

The World According to Helga, volume five.

I read that poem while sitting on my couch. Transference? Limerence? I'll have to visit the library and find out what those words mean. I can only imagine. Helga felt threatened by those words I guess. I take another swig of my soda and I sit it down, pushing my knuckles up against my skull in frustration.

Did I still like her bow? Now that I think about it, I always found it cute the way Helga could be having such a horrible day, and taking it out on everyone, yet that perky pink bow would sit atop her head like nothing was wrong. Like, maybe it was there to assure me that no matter how much its master threatened me, that everything would be okay in the end. This is the first poem that I've come across, and it's so confusing. I'm thirteen years old, in the eighth grade, and I don't know what this poem means. That's not entirely true. I think I know a little bit. But... Helga was nine, or ten, did she know what this poem meant to her when she wrote it?

Or was she just as confused about what Doctor Bliss had said that she felt threatened by those two psychology terms, so much so that she had to write about it...

I hear chair legs scraping across the floor, and a tray clanking down onto the table, then I sense someone sitting beside me and I look over. It's Phoebe.

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Chapter 2: Heyerdahl

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Phoebe looks at me strangely, and I can't really describe the amusement on her face as it contorts into a smile and she laughs, covering her mouth politely. "Arnold?"

"Yeah?" I smile back at her. Phoebe's expressions can be infectious sometimes, especially when she smiles... Every now and then.

She uncovers her mouth just enough to say, "You have a noodle on your nose!"

I shift my eyes and sure enough, I can see the blurry outline of a reddish looking spaghetti noodle sticking to my nose. Crap. How long has that been there. I look quickly around the room and thank god no one else is looking my way. I reach up my napkin and wipe off the offending noodle. "Did I get it all?"

"Yes." Phoebe nods. After a few more giggles she finally uncovers her mouth and reaches for the fork on her tray. From this angle, as Phoebe twirls the spaghetti around on her fork and then lifts the pasta to her mouth, I can't help but stare at the profile before me.

It seemed like when seventh grade rolled around and classes started, I was sure that when I saw Phoebe I was looking at a total stranger. She let her hair down and cropped it short, into a somewhat messy look. Her blue framed glasses were replaced with a pair of square black frames. She's wearing a black sweater but I can see the collar of a light blue shirt. She still prefers a skirt but today she's wearing a black pair of slacks. She wears her old blue scrunchy on her left wrist. Phoebe's face is growing out of it's youthful rounded look and I can see those more adult curves in her face. Her skin is so typically Japanese but those brown, almond shaped eyes seem to have flecks of gray here and there, owing that she may not be as Japanese as our classmates like to think. I'm about to admire a few more curves when Phoebe notices my stare and smiles. "I'm pretty sure I don't need an audience while I eat, but thank you for the attention."

I look away and laugh sheepishly. She knows that I notice her like that sometimes. So she makes sure to point it out and embarrass me to no end. "Sure Phoebe." She's taller too. I can look to my right and not have to tilt my head. We eat in silence and I think again how thankful I am for Phoebe's company. In all this crazy mess called Junior High she's become my best friend. We do everything together.

I can't help but blush. We're considered one of the hottest couples in Junior high, but we aren't even dating. Let them think what they want. Phoebe's my best friend. Of course, Phoebe is also the only person who really got to know Helga, being that they were best friends before the accident, and I still consider myself to be second in Phoebe's friendship ladder, right under Helga. Because I can't bring myself to mentally de-throne the terror of PS 118 of the title as best friend to Phoebe Heyerdahl, no matter what Phoebe's opinion is on the matter.

We continue to eat in silence, like nothing interesting is going on, a typical day in junior high.

As for Gerald...

Ever since Gerald left, Phoebe hardly mentions his name. Often I simply want to ask her if she's kept in contact with him for the past year. But as I think back to the last day I saw Gerald in person, and as I finally stab the lone meatball and lift it to my mouth so it can meet its demise, I think I already know her answer...

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_"Well, that's the last of it." Gerald's face lit up with a wide smile. "Man Arnold, can you believe it, Los Angeles California. It's like a dream." Gerald said happily as he closed the tailgate of his family's car. It took a few attempts to make the tailgate latch because it was so stuffed with bags and suitcases. Most of their stuff was packed away in a moving truck that had already left for Los Angeles, but their father had opted to pack as much into their silver-gray Hyundai Sonata to save money on the movers, even though it would probably have been a meager amount. So they stuffed as much as possible in the trunk, with even more items in the back seat, nearly packed to the roof. At least Gerald wouldn't have to see Timberly too much, I wondered if that was their father's motive, to place an impenetrable wall of luggage between the two. To say that Timberly and Gerald had a case of sibling rivalry was an understatement. I'd seen them at their worst, and you'd think the axis powers had just gone to war with the allies again._

_"Yeah. A dream." I admitted half-heartedly. Looking down the street, east towards the clear and cloudless August sunrise. Hillwood and Los Angeles were quite a few miles away. This really was goodbye. But there was no going back. Gerald's father, Martin Johansen, had made up his mind, or his company had made it for him. Some kind of accounting software that he helped develop had saved the company millions. Some of that saved money, in turn went to Mr. Johansen's paycheck in the form of a huge raise, and a promotion. But that also meant he had to move to work at the company's corporate office. The Johansen's were moving up in society, and moving to a huge city even bigger than Hillwood._

_Gerald walked beside me, sighed, and patted me on the shoulder. "It's easy for me to get excited about this." He then walked towards the stoop of their old house, and walked up to the door. I followed one last time. "I know we won't be able to hang out anymore, but I'll write, and even call, when my father lets me have a few minutes." _

_I laughed. "Somehow I don't see your father changing his ways too soon." I followed Gerald into the house._

_Gerald looked around at the barren house. From somewhere upstairs we could hear Timberly talking with their parents, so Gerald lowered his voice. "You know the man puts his paychecks directly into his savings account?" His voice still echoed a bit through the empty house, even though his voice was lowered to a whisper._

_"Why am I not surprised." I looked around us when I realized something was amiss. It hadn't really hit me until it dawned on me that there was nothing left in the house other than the Johansen's, minus Jamie-o who was in college taking summer courses, myself, and the clothes on our backs. "Where's Phoebe?"_

_"She's not stopping by. I already said goodbye to her." Gerald closed his eyes and shook his head sadly as he let his head drop while he shifted a foot around on the worn wooden floor. "I broke up with her." He said quietly._

_"You what?!"_

_Gerald looked at me in a panic and waved his hand in front of my face to quiet me down. "I don't want my parents to find out just yet. My mom really likes her and she won't let me hear the end of it on this trip if she finds out now." He shook his head. "It wasn't easy."_

_"I'll say." I contort my face to let Gerald know I'm not too happy with him. "Since the fifth grade you two were stuck together at the hip."_

_"I know, I know, but you've seen the way Phoebe works now. She's changed. She's not the same Phoebe anymore, ever since Helga... Since the accident. Phoebe's been so withdrawn from everything."_

_ "That's no reason to break up with her."_

_"You do know I'm moving to Los Angeles, right?" Gerald swept his hand out, calling my attention to the empty walls that surrounded us._

_"I'll admit this to you, which is kind of funny since you were dating her. She's quite a catch Gerald. She's smart, she's pretty cute, and she's obviously attracted to you. You could continue a relationship with her. Absence makes the heart grow fonder."_

_"I know, but absence isn't the best thing for Phoebe. There's no way I can be around for Phoebe when her PTSD goes off." _

_"Oh. How does breaking up with her help her get over her post-trauma stuff?" I asked angrily. To take Phoebe's heart and then drop it on the ground in front of her; I didn't even want to think about how Phoebe must have been feeling at that point in time. First Helga, and then Gerald._

_Gerald looked at the stairs to the second floor and then looked at me. "We should take this outside."_

_"Okay." I agreed and he led me outside, where we immediately walked down the stoop and stood by the Sonata. Gerald leaned back against the car and I just stood there with my arms crossed, waiting for him to spill his defense on why he broke Phoebe's heart._

_"I didn't expect you to understand my reasons for breaking up with her right off the bat."_

_"No. I still don't."_

_Gerald wasn't the kind of person to glare at his friends, but the look Gerald gave me, I had never seen it before. It was dead serious. It was the look of a person who had thought it through, and knew exactly what he was doing. I finally let go of my arms and turned to lean back against the imported sedan along with Gerald. _

_"Remember when I asked Phoebe out?" He asked softly, staring at his old house._

_I simply nodded. "Right before Christmas break. In the cafeteria." _

_"Fifth grade man. We had it made. Same classmates, same lunch period. The day before Christmas break. Helga was out sick and Phoebe was eating lunch by herself. Perfect opportunity."_

_I thought back to the day in fifth grade, when we had exited the lunch line and Gerald saw Phoebe eating by herself, sans Helga. He simply smiled, winked at me with a thumbs up, and walked over to where Phoebe sat. I never heard the exchange between the two, but I had never seen Phoebe blush so much that day. Gerald sat down beside Phoebe and she started giggling, then nodded yes. Whatever Gerald had said would be one of the history's unsolved mysteries, because he'd never admit to anyone what he had said, even to me. The legendary Phoebe and Gerald romance had started that day. I took a page out of Gerald's playbook. "That was a bold move Gerald. You're a bold guy." I grinned, and Gerald laughed slightly. _

_The tension broke a little, but I could see it in the way Gerald's smile faded a little. He was getting to that point. "You know, Helga treated me differently after that. She still called me Geraldo, but for some reason things were cool between us. I guess I earned her respect. Or I was dating her best pal so she reigned herself in for Phoebe's sake."_

_"I think it was the latter." I admitted to him. "Helga never really liked you. Oil and water, and all that." _

_"I know. Helga always gave Phoebe and me our space though. When we went on dates. She even defended us whenever Harold decided to make fun of us. But anyway, about Phoebe. Those dates were really fly. We saw The Seven Samurai without any subtitles once and Phoebe translated the entire thing for me while we ate pizza in her living room! That was so cool."_

_"See Gerald. She likes you a lot. You didn't have to break up with her. You could write her letters and call her on the phone, when your dad lets you."_

_Gerald shook his head. "I wish it was that easy. I just can't. I remember the day of that car wreck. My mom just happened to pull up at the intersection, and you know how she loves Phoebe. She saw her standing there with some police officers. She rushed home and told me that something had happened to Phoebe. So I ran out of the house. When I got there, there was no ambulance, Helga was gone, just some wrecked sports car, some police officers, and Phoebe sitting against a squad car."_

_Gerald pushed away from the car and shoved his hands in his pockets. He tapped a shoe against the ground. I could see he was fighting for the words. He looked at the car and lightly kicked his foot up against the rear tire. "When I finally got to cross the street and approached Phoebe, I kneeled down and she looked up at me. She was shaking, but, the way she looked at me. It was like no one was home. It was so distant. I tried talking with her but it didn't work. It was like she was catatonic or something." He sighed. "The police finally told me what had happened. About Helga. They told me she pushed Phoebe out of the way."_

_"My Grandpa saw it happen." I closed my eyes briefly at the recollection. Grandpa had come home, walked into the kitchen where I was helping my grandma make dinner, and told me that he had just seen an accident. He said that he saw that friend of mine with the one eyebrow push some little Japanese girl out of the way of a car that had lost control through a red light. I still remember dropping the plate of watermelon slices whenever he then said that Helga got hit by the car and had been taken away in an ambulance._

_Gerald continued. "So I sat there with her, trying to get her attention. They took her to the hospital for evaluation. She finally opened up to me that night. She cried and cried. Since then, that Phoebe that I asked out in the fifth grade doesn't exist anymore Arnold. That accident messed up her mind something bad."_

_"Do you still like her?"_

_"Yes. I still like her like her." He grinned at the novelty. That phrase had gone out of style with the new school year, but it still found use every now and then. We all knew what it meant to like-like someone. So why not use it where appropriate? "I like liked her whenever they diagnosed her with post-traumatic stress," Gerald started counting off with his fingers, "I like liked her whenever we finally coaxed her to visit Helga, she held my hand like a vice grip. Did I ever tell you she had a panic attack after we left the hospital? I like liked her whenenver she started attending counseling and I had to go along with her for moral support. Do you see a theme here buddy?"_

_"I think I'm starting to see your point." I conceded. Gerald was going to Los Angeles no matter what, and Phoebe needed someone to be here in Hillwood for her, physically here, not just by letter or phone call. Then, as he looked at me expectantly, I realized he was wanting to pass that torch on to me._

_He continued. "If she's here in Hillwood, and she has a panic attack, and needs someone to be there for her, how can I help her when I'm all the way in Los Angeles? I know this is a lot for me to ask, but, I need you to be there for Phoebe. She doesn't have Helga so she needs someone. Look out for her, okay man? I'd really appreciate it." He reached out his hand._

_"I still don't agree with the break up part." I held out my hand to his, and we waggled our thumbs one last time in our own secret handshake. That sealed our agreement. I was going to help Phoebe get through her own problems, heck, her own life, whether she liked it or not._

_Just then the rest of the Johansen clan came out of the house, with Timberly skipping down the steps, and Mrs. Johanson following close behind. _

_"Arnold!" Timberly squealed and ran up to me, then she threw her thin arms around me quickly. I winced as the pink headphones she was wearing dug into my chest, and she knocked the wind out of my lungs. "Goodbye! You should visit us!"_

_Then she released me and I breathed in quickly. "Yeah Timberly. I'd like that." Timberly beamed at me and ran around the car, tearing open the door with her incredible energy. _

_Mrs. Johansen followed her youngest child with her eyes and then smiled at me apologetically. "I'm sorry about that Arnold. Timberly doesn't know her own strength. I'm sure she'll take gymnastics next year. You are free to visit you know. Just let us know when you want to, and we'll arrange something. Okay?" She opened the passenger side door._

_Mr. Johansen was the last out the door. "Okay everybody in the car. We're burning daylight." He looked in our direction and paused for a second as he locked the front door one last time.. _

_"Bye Mr. Johansen" I said. "Have a safe trip. I'll really miss you guys."_

_Mr. Johansen smiled back at me and nodded. "Goodbye son. Say goodbye to Phil for me." _

_I simply nodded back at him. "I will."_

_He then looked at Gerald. "Come on Gerald." He stressed urgently while he continued down the stoop and to the car. "We better go before we hit traffic. At this rate we'll have to fill up before we reach Haddleton." Gerald rolled his eyes as he opened up the passenger side door to the backseat. I couldn't really see Timberly but I could hear her singing something. _

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"Arnold?" Phoebe breaks my memory.

"Sorry Phoebe. What was that you were saying?" I ask her.

"You haven't touched your food for the last five minutes. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. I was just thinking." I reach down at the spaghetti and stab into it with my fork.

"Oh? About what?" Phoebe asks politely as she scoops up another bite of spaghetti.

Her question gives me pause. What should I tell Phoebe. She's a smart girl. Should I tell her what I found? Would she understand? We've been through so much since Gerald left for Los Angeles. She's come to trust me, even when she gets withdrawn, I can usually get her out of it just by extending my hand for her to grab on to. When she has a panic attack I can calm her down just by talking to her. We've built up a trust of each other as true friends, not mere acquaintances. But, the subject of Helga is like walking through an overgrown field full of old land mines. Say the wrong thing and Phoebe could go into a panic, or get depressed, all depending upon her mood.

I've yet to come up with a way to cope with that. I guess for Phoebe it will go away naturally, I hope. Lately I've been contented to let her bring up the subject of Helga G. Pataki, on her own terms, and at her own pace. But Phoebe's just asked me what's on my mind, and I find myself in need of her intelligent advice, so I come up with an angle, a question. "Have you ever felt like you've just opened up a gigantic Pandora's box and you really have no idea what's in store for you?"

Phoebe must be in a pretty good mood today, for she looks at me and smiles. She probably still has that image of me with a noodle plastered to my nose. "When my parents and I visited Japan last summer, we went to this pizza parlor in Osaka and ordered their specialty pizza. It had corn on it."

Images of that poem, and some woman named Pandora are instantly replaced with a picture of a pizza with corn on top. Phoebe noticed the odd look I gave her as I questioned, "Corn on pizza?"

"Actually, it was pretty good. But I had no idea what I was getting myself into when we opened that pizza box. So in a way it was like Pandora's box. Or, Pandora's pizza." Phoebe finishes. She's developed her own sense of humor to, albeit a dry one. She has to make her own because I'm no comedian. But I laugh at it anyway. It's actually pretty funny. Phoebe simply smiles even more. "I think we all go through that every once and a while. It's like an old Chinese proverb: May you live in interesting times."

I know I really can't press Phoebe about it much more without coming out and telling her what I found. So I simply nod at her and smile, as she reaches for her bottle of water, content for now that she's helped me in her own way.

She opens the bottle of Aquafina and asks me before taking a sip. "Were you able to get access to Helga's book collection yesterday?"

I nod and reach down for the very appetizing cinnamon roll sitting on the tray before me, and I start picking it apart with my fingers. I also try to draw my attention towards my tray while I'm at it, feeling suddenly guilty. "I got a bunch of books. Her sister helped me out. I think I got several months worth of reading material in that one tote bag. Plus, Olga said that I can come back to get more books later on."

"What did you pick up?"

"Some Steinbeck, several poetry books, some huge book with a bunch of plays in it, like some of Shakespeare's works."

"I know that book!" Phoebe exclaims happily.

"How so?" I ask her.

"I gave it to Helga on her tenth birthday, after seeing her performance in Romeo and Juliet. Does it look like she's read through it already?"

I nod at her. "There's some corners turned in." She looks at me and grins over a mouthful of spaghetti.

She swallows the spaghetti. "Which corners?"

"I. Uh. Didn't look. I thumbed through it. But it looked like most of the corners were turned in on Romeo and Juliet. She really liked that play." I know why she liked the play. I still remember the sound of her melodramatic voice as she hovered over me while I laid still on the cold floor of the stage. Then that warmth that seemed to take all that cold away. I swear she had all the details down, even what she would taste like when she kissed me. I bite into the piece of sticky cinnamon roll. She tasted like a warm cinnamon roll... I freeze up as I look at the partially dismantled roll sitting on my tray, I feel haunted all of the sudden. I pray Phoebe doesn't notice my expression. I sit the rest of the piece down and dab my fingers with a napkin, and go for my bottle of yahoo. I need to wash away that taste.

The carbonation and the cola burn away the rest of the cinnamon and I swallow thankfully. This little secret weighs on me so much. Again, I wonder if I should tell Phoebe, but I strike it down, remembering the triggers. I looked up PTSD, even asked Doctor Bliss once when she visited the school. Look out for triggers... Look out for triggers... Look out for triggers... I sit my left hand down and clutch at the napkin, while picking at the few noodles of spaghetti that are left. I need to let Phoebe carry this conversation so I don't slip up. So I sit there silently, waiting for Phoebe to say something, anything.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Anything but that. "Yeah. I'm fine. I guess I'm still a little shaken by some of the stuff I read in this one book of hers."

"Which one?"

"It's called Run with the Hunted." I lie, though I'm not happy about it. I lift the Yahoo back up to my lips.

"Charles Bukowski." She adds. "One of Helga's favorite poets. Most of his work is kind of, gritty... Be careful reading that one out loud. You don't want to have a nurse walk in on you reading 'love poem to a stripper.'"

I'm glad I didn't start drinking the Yahoo or I'd be choking on it. I sit the bottle back down and look at Phoebe. She simply smiles back and pushes the spaghetti around the tray with her fork. We don't flirt, this is our banter as friends.

Gerald was right about Phoebe changing. One can only fathom how much is different behind those uniquely brown eyes of hers. Sometimes I can see some of Helga's fire in her humor, the way she acts around me. Like somehow she thinks I expect it of her. I don't, but it is there. Phoebe and Helga were tight as friends, and Phoebe has to fill that void somehow. If she has to pick up some of Helga's traits to survive in this world, then so be it.

I also see some of Gerald too. She doesn't mind it when we go to the arcade, or do things that Gerald and I did when he was still around. She got it from being Gerald's girlfriend, I guess.

But the one thing that I've noticed in my past year since Gerald left. Something I never noticed before about Phoebe. The way when she looks at me, I can feel her stare in the back of my head, as if she's peering into me, and she knows what I'm about. Is this why Helga was her best friend? Did Phoebe see the true Helga beyond the all that mystery that I'm trying to unravel? Did she know, who Helga was, without Helga having to say anything?

Does Phoebe hold the key?

Do I dare ask her?

"Pandora's box is also referred to as Pandora's jar." Phoebe looks back at her tray of food, and pokes at her green beans. "You found Helga's poetry."

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Author's Notes

I apologize to all you Gerald fans out there. Rest assured that Gerald will make more appearances later on. He's an important character in the series and I'm not just going to write him out of the story.

The corn as a pizza topping bit was taken from the book _Dave Barry Does Japan_, in which one of the humor columnist's thoughts, based on an experience with pizza in Japan, was "Corn on pizza..."

Next up: Arnold has to deal with Phoebe knowing about his discovery. Does this mean Phoebe knows about the locket as well? Stick around for Chapter 3: _In the Absence of Bliss_

Please read and review! I will personally reply to each and every review, as always.


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